Pick-up from Childcare
When he sees me
I'm greeted with the brief squeeze
like a muscle's inevitable contraction
nerves firing for fibres to thicken, pull short.
Then he runs away
to a wooden fridge and stove
busies himself in the corner.
As I near I hear his whispers
- a fabulation: words mouthed
soft as a brush of hand across silk.
My face I see in his, something about
the angle of forehead, chin and cheek
that will disappear.
When I scoop his reluctant form into
my home-time arms he struggles.
I nuzzle a kiss to the back of his neck
relish the rough sand-salt of his day,
confirm this juncture where
workday ends, hometime begins.